SKETCH FOR ALETHEIA NOVEL (ROUGH)

Aletheia strode the low markets of Serei, feet confined by dry slippers. It was strange to be out of the temple, out from the under the eyes of the older monks, out from the constant shush of water. Strange and liberating—here the noise was vendor’s cries, hammer’s beat, false exclamations of shock during haggling. Instead of white walls and the tiny black carvings of the founders, dockmarkets were a riot of painted wood columns, rainbow piles of spice, red scarves on the women and black cowls over the white faces of the easterners, their sleek-bowed ships appearing ever more often in harbor. Best of all, in place of the monks exhortations, the chants of the day, the steady background hum of thought coming through the waterways, her thoughts were entirely her own.

It was glorious.

It wasn’t often she was sent to town—even after six years in the temple, the monks didn’t trust her. Didn’t think a girl—a woman—could fulfill their needs in the city, could dispense everyday justice, could guide the populace as it needed guiding. And this was none of that—this was only a package delivery, a thick letter sealed and coated in the thick gray wax of the third eschelate, to be delivered to a Hallimpho on the docks. A simple task, and still she knew the other monks, the Tenders who worked in the city, had been told of her task, had stood in the stream in the morning and heard of the temple’s rogue female monk being trusted for the first time with any business in the city, and keep an eye on her brothers lest her nature betray her.

Theia clenched her fists, though not so tight the bamboo case over the letter would crack. Her nature—not only was she a woman, she was violet-eyed, in a time when violet eyes were a dangerous mark. There was word in the city of violet-eyes disappearing, of the former caliphate’s mark being swept from the city. No one knew at whose word, whether political enemies finally having their way with the collapse of the Violet Dynasty, or the temple itself quelling potential usurpers, or perhaps blood magicians seeking to harvest the power of dynasty’s ancient bloodline.

It did not matter: she would need to watch for captors, as well as for Tenders with too sharp an eye, and her mark on the dock fronts—and Ralik. Fat-eyed, quick-fingered Ralik, apostate of the temple, the only friend she’d known, now making a living in dockmarket as a cobbler’s apprentice. And, she imagined, as a thief in the night. He’d been thrown from the temple after the monks discovered a stash of founder carvings under his bed, worthless to any but the monastics, but still forbidden. The fool, because he had never learned watersight, he had forgotten it would still work in the night, still eventually seep through his oiled boots, eventually betray him.It always did, in the water palace. Your thoughts were not your own, and Aletheia had to keep constant watch over hers, run constant conversations in her mind to confuse any who might be waterlistening, to hide her true thoughts. Her forbidden thoughts.

Her unbelief.

Some knew, of course. They had to. She had not grown up in the water temple with any illusions of privacy or secrecy, not when every floor was a shallow pool, every hallway a running stream, and every monk trained in waterlistening, many in waterspeech. No, when they could place thoughts in your own head, as well as hear yours, the opportunities for free thought were few. Here, however, with dry feet in dry shoes, she could think as much as she liked.

Aletheia slowed her steps from their usual swift pace, forced herself to stop at a spice market and examine pinches of paprika and turmeric, to sniff at bulbous roots of ginger, test a finger against chiles cut to demonstrate potency. Her thoughts were her own. No hiding, no confusing of the waterguard, just free and empty mental space. What then to think?

​Think of escape. Of how Ralik might or might not have a real lead on booking passage on one of the interior caravans. On how she might manage it herself, disappearing as he had into the city, or buying passage on a ship, or simply ferrying to Arrikensa just visible on the far side of the strait. It was said men would give passage for the price of a few days’ labor, or less even. She didn’t want to leave the temple, didn’t want to leave her studies, but if it was between that and waiting for the monks to cut her other eye, or abductees to take her for her violet heritage, or simply living out life as the lowest rank of monk, unable to proceed for her gender and likely eventually pushed into motherhood, she would leave.

Hopefully, though, it would not come to that. Aletheia turned from the spices.

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